


Atlas's Soul

by QuirkyBrunettes



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:31:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuirkyBrunettes/pseuds/QuirkyBrunettes
Summary: The exorcism of Kate Fuller was a success, but the queen of hell's claws pierced too deep to be forgotten. Amaru still needs Kate to finish her ritual, and Kate is prepared to pay any price to stop the woman who stole her skin and left it bruised and bloodied. RichieKate (Season 3 rewrite post 3x7. Mostly canon)





	1. One

_“Tell me, Atlas. What is heavier: The world or its people’s hearts?” -Darshana Suresh_

Kate’s knees are pulled up to her chest. She’s sitting in lukewarm bath water that’s a murky shade of rosy pink. All the bubbles have dissipated and her skin is wrinkled and soft. The water’s color reminds her of diluted blood, and she’s sending ripples through the soapy water with her pruned fingertips. She knows the others must be curious after she’s been in the humid bathroom for over an hour, but she doesn’t want to leave. Doesn’t want to exit the steamy bathroom and face the real world- her guilt ridden younger brother and everyone who refuses to look into her eyes because they don’t see Kate. They see _her_. She doesn’t want to remember all souls that are so potent in her memory they practically shake her bones, doesn’t want to face the lingering effects of looking at people and feeling more than humanly possible. It’s more than Kate ever felt, and this new person she’s become is terrifying. Kate lowers her body into the water, deep enough so the water covers her nose and she can’t breath. She counts to sixty-two and feels her lungs burn. Kate holds her breath for another twenty-four seconds and only comes up for air when black spots starts dance in her peripheral vision. A part of her screams to stay under where her mind is fuzzy and her concerns are floating away, but then there’s a knock on the door and reality rushes back.

“Kate,” it’s Scott, “Dinner’s here. Are you almost ready?”

His voice sounds so tentative she can’t help but respond. “Just give me a minute, okay?” Her own voice is raspy from lack of oxygen and use. Her vocal cords have rusted over because Kate Fuller hasn’t spoken in months.

Kate inhales once, slowly, and then stands up from the bathwater and wraps a towel around her sudsy body. Her hair is still a terrible shade of red and water droplets are dripping from the crimson locks like a open wound and she wants to cut it all off. Instead, she ties it into a messy bun on the top of her head and pads out of the room softly, happy to make it back to her room without seeing anyone. Maybe everyone’s just avoiding her. Her room is tiny, and Kate isn’t even sure what it was used for before. A twin-sized bed has been haphazardly pushed into a corner and a pastel yellow duvet covers the mattress. It makes her smile when she brushes a fingertip over the feather soft fabric and sees glimpses of him buying it for her; Kate feels his nerves and uneasiness and it’s oddly comforting. In the other corner of the room is a wooden dresser filled with some old clothes she knows Kisa donated to Kate’s personal charity. The dead girl possessed by the queen of hell. The jeans are all too long for her short frame, and she ends up having to roll the bottoms, but she doesn’t mind. It’s the tops that give her pause. Kate can’t imagine putting on the black blouses left for her. She can tell Kisa must have picked out the most demure items she owns, but they sit awkwardly on Kate’s skin and they feel like something _she_ would wear. Kate’s worried about the bare shoulders and exposed collarbones; she feels so vulnerable and her bare skin makes her too self-conscious to breath.

She feels stale panic clench her stomach. She doesn’t want to go out and face them with her hair frizzing like dried blood and a shimmery blouse, but she’s not courageous enough to ask the people who’s loved ones she’s killed to get her another shirt so she’ll feel more comfortable. Poor little Kate Fuller. The words leave a sour taste in her mouth, and she’s tearing through the clothes in her drawer before she can stop herself. Clothes surround her on the floor and tears burn behind her eyes, when Kate’s eyes land on something soft and white. It’s a dress shirt that must belong to one of the men in the house. Kate closes her eyes and wraps her fingers in the cotton, knows it’s Richie’s. Looking around at the effects of her temper tantrum with red-rimmed eyes, she hurriedly buttons up the shirt and folds the sleeves multiple times until they rest in bunches on her wrists. She feels like she’s walking around in a borrowed body. Hair the wrong color and clothes multiple sizes too big, Kate feels like an imposter. The smell of garlic wafts through the air, and it’s only the memory of Scott’s scared voice that makes her shut her room door with care so no one can see her mess, and walk into the dimly lit kitchen.

She hears their hushed voices before she sees them. She can’t help but eavesdrop even when her momma always said it wasn’t polite to listen to other’s conversations. Kate doesn’t think she’s ever going to polite again.

“The exorcism,” there’s a huff and she knows it’s the stranger they call Burt, “It shouldn’t have worked. You shitheads went and messed with things you didn’t understand, and now that girl-”

“Kate,” Richie cuts in sharply.

“And now Kate,” Burt continues, placing a nasty emphasis on her name, “is stuck somewhere between.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Seth asks and his voice sounds so tired.

Suddenly, Kate is gripping the wall to support herself. She remembers his enraged face and her own agonized screams, remembers feeling utterly helpless and trapped. Her breathing is coming in fast, and she thinks she’s finally going to submit to the hysteria that she’s worked so hard to hold off since she resurfaced three days ago, but then her voice is being called.

“Kate,” Scott’s face is in front of her and a paper plate is resting in his open palm. There’s a slice of pizza on it; pepperoni and mushrooms just like she’s always liked. “Kate please calm down. You’re safe now.”

Liar.

His voice calls the attention of the others, and suddenly Kate is just standing in the too-narrow hallway with Scott’s terrified faces and the Gecko brothers and it all seems so wrong that she’s the one these thieves and killers are scared for. Of. She tries to force oxygen to her lungs, but suddenly it’s like every breath she takes results in a wheezy exhale.

“Kate,” Richie’s deep voice pulls her attention to his concerned gaze. His hands are raises, palms up placating, and he’s slowly moving closer to her. “Just breathe.”

He mimics the action, chest rising and falling and she uses his breaths like a timer for her own. He waves the others away, giving Scott a physical shove when he doesn’t move. Then, it’s just the two of them and it takes Kate minutes and hours until her ragged breathing returns to something steady. He just stands there, close to her without being threatening, his large form all she can see and her eye line nearly level with his chest. He smells like nicotine and something fresh, maybe citrus. Richie grabs both of her shaking hands and holds them to his chest, filling his own lungs as an example for her, as his long fingers intertwine with her own.

“Are you okay?”

The words wash over her, not soothing but inflammatory. Kate looks up at him with sharp eyes, “What do you think?”

The memory of her death is still fresh in her mind, and it hurts. She thinks of her brother siding with her murderer instead of her, and of this man she barely knew but held such a deep faith in- his betrayal hurt more than she wants to admit. Kate feels like such a fool. She remembers her schoolgirl crush on the beautiful man with glasses who seemed to look right into her soul. Her words seem to wound him, and he flinches away from her glare as if she had physically struck him. They’re hands fall limply at their respective sides, and Kate hates herself for missing his touch in that brief moment.

“Kate.”

“Don’t.”

She doesn’t want to her hear name on his lips and remember their kiss, the venomous bite of the bullets ripping into her flesh. Even more than that, Kate refuses to allow herself to remember the taste of his soul still lingering on her tongue, or the way she had pulled on Richie’s mind like a single thread that caused the entire thing to unravel. Richard Gecko tastes like resentment and possibility.

She shoves away from him, but stops with her back to him. “The first time I met you, you said you saw me bleeding. Does that make you Joseph or Judah?”


	2. Two

_"Hell is empty and all the devils are here!"_

_\- Shakespeare_

 

Kate doesn’t like staying inside anymore. The monotony of the chipped walls and lethargic fan slicing through the air like lazy limbs make her stir-crazy. She sits outside in the warm desert air and feels a kinship with the tumbleweeds. Kate Fuller, the innocent preacher’s daughter, is no more. That girl bled to death on the unforgiving pavement. She’s something new now- worn and ripped and not entirely whole, but breathing. Kate develops an unusual appreciation for calendars. She likes checking off the dates with red exes. It’s satisfying and grounding when so many of the boxes are days that don’t belong to her. It’s the first thing she asked for since returning.

_“I want a calendar,” she had declared, voice distinctly different from the mumbling tone she had adapted._

_“A what?” Seth turned to her with eyebrows raised, half in confusion and half in amusement._

_“A calendar. You know, boxes and dates and all that.”_

_“Richard, you heard the girl. A calendar it is.”_

_That night, Richie and Scott had walked into her room with a bag full of calendars: some big, some palm-sized, pictures of puppies and nature and horoscopes. “We didn’t know which one you had wanted,” Richie had admitted, looking more boyish than he had any right to._

So, when Kisa comes to Jacknife Jed’s, Kate knows it’s a Wednesday. Flashes of a dark-haired woman pass through Kate’s memory, each one physical like the slash of a blade. She remembers Kisa’s pleas and heartbreak, and Kate is so sure she’s here to exact revenge.

“I’m so sorry,” the words tumble out, “I couldn’t stop her. I tried, but I couldn’t and I’m sorry.” Kate looks up at Kisa with eyes swimming with tears and expects- wants- her anger. She’s standing in the shadows, but Kate is still squinting against the setting sun’s retreating grasp of sunlight.

“Kate,” the woman says in a voice akin to understanding, “It’s not your fault. That wasn’t you.”

Kisa sits down on the dusty curb next to Kate. She looks out of place with her carefully styled locks and lips painted the perfect color of wine. In comparison, Kate feels like a little girl; her face is scrubbed clean of makeup and hours in the sun have freckled the skin on her shoulders and the bridge of her nose. She’s starting pilfering a collection of Scott’s faded band tees and Richie’s white dress shirts; she likes the way the loose material floats around her rather than constricting.

Kate is staring at the lines in her palms when she responds, “I remember everything. Every soul, every life. She made me watch and I couldn’t do anything and it was like someone had stuffed me in a prison of my own skin.”

She’s surprised by the raw honesty in which she speaks Kisa- a virtual stranger. The only time she’s seen this woman is when she was dancing with a snake wrapped around her neck like something straight from the book of Genesis. Kate had hated her back then, but Richie’s words ring clear in her head. He was right. It is easier talking to a stranger.

“Kate, I know what it feels like to be a prisoner. You did nothing wrong. You were a victim, but that doesn’t make you weak. You can’t let her continue to rule your life.” Kisa’s voice is frank, and Kate appreciates how she doesn’t treat her like something that’s about to break. To everyone else, Kate isn’t flesh and blood and bone. She’s fractured glass.

“I saw what you did to him. Richie, I mean. The things he did to that teller, that you made him do, how do you live with that? How do I?” Her inquiry isn’t accusatory. She’s knows how far desperation will push a person. The memory of shaky hands plunging a knife into an innocent drifter is vivid among her nightmares, and Kate has no moral pulpit to support judgment.

Kisa breathes in through her nose and sets her shoulders resolutely, guilt written between the lines of her regality. “The world is cruel, Kate. It wants to break you, so you become steel.” Sends her a sad smile, “And you’ll survive, but not all of you.”

They sit in the humid hair for hours, watching the amber sun sink into the horizon and be swallowed by the night.

When Kisa arrives the next day and throws a bottle of hair dye on Kate’s bed, she can’t say she’s surprised. They lock themselves in the bathroom, air heavy with the smell of ammonia, and both women learn that maybe they should have read the directions when Kate’s head is tingling all over and the porcelain basin is stained brown.

“Wait,” Kisa holds up the box with gloved hands, “Is it time to wash off? Oh fuck, have either one us been watching the clock?”

With her hair glued to her head and a shower cap slipping off the slathered hair, Kate looks at Kisa’s reflection in the mirror in front of her and a bark of laughter escapes her. She brings a hand to her mouth as borderline hysterics rack her body, and the other woman’s laughter echoes Kate’s own. When they rinse off her hair in the shower, water splays on the walls and both girls feel lighter than they have in a long time. Kate’s once sanguine hair is a dishwater blonde that she never would have ever chosen for herself a year back. Delicately, she wraps a strand around her finger and watches it fall in a loose wave down her shoulders. It feels like removing a bloodstain.

When she arrives for dinner that night, it’s the first time she’s come down without being called. Scott greets her with a grin. She knows he’s trying to hard to make up for before. Guilt propels him as strongly as love, but when he smiles like that it almost doesn’t matter. He leans on over in his chair and ruffles her hair affectionately, “Imagine Dad’s reaction?”

Kate laughs softly, “Look at us, Scott. I doubt this would have been Daddy’s biggest concern.”

“Maybe, but Mom would have said you looked beautiful.”

Kate breathes in sharply, feeling a pang at their first loving mention of their lost family. She squeezes his hand under the table.

“Who would have thought Santanico would be the one to get you to smile again, Princess.” Seth’s remark is paired with a look at the culebra, who rolls her eyes in response. Most of the animosity between them has fizzled, and they’ve come to the point of reluctant allies.

“It’s Kisa, Seth,” Kate reminds pointedly.

The women share a smile, and Kate thinks the world’s tipped upside down.

~

It can’t be put off any longer. Their bubble of denial and safety had to be burst eventually. Burt and Tanner are sitting across from her, and Kate is suddenly aware how uncomfortable the wooden chairs are as she fidgets. Scott is on her right, Seth to her left, and Richie is leaning against the wall. Kate doesn’t look at him.

“I told you already,” she addresses the stockier, dark haired man, “It was just gone.”

“The amulet vanished on its own?”

“Looks like.”

“Necklaces don’t just walk away on their own, Katie-Cakes.”

She glares at Tanner, “You don’t get to call me that.”

He’s surprised by the venom in her voice, and whistles lowly, which just adds fuel to her anger. Ever since he walked into the warehouse, Kate has felt her skin crawl. If he made her squeamish before, her discomfort is practically palpable now when she can feel his gaze on her neck and his desires are buzzing all around her. She buttoned Richie’s dress shirt up all the way when they had sat down originally, and she wishes she could rip his wandering eyes from his head.

“You heard the little lady, Professor Shithead. You so much as look at her the wrong way and you’re about to find out just how temporary tenure really is.” Seth punctuates his warning with his gun, aiming it at the culebra’s heart.

“Calm down, alright. You can’t really blame me. With the Santa Sangre running though her veins, the girl’s blood is cream-of-the-crop.”

“You perverted freak,” Scott begins when Burt cuts him off.

“He’s right, Scott. That blood changed your sister. We just want to see if they’re any,” he searches for his next words, “lingering effects.”

“And how do you expect to do that?”

“Blood is the conduit of the soul,” Tanner interjects, “We share blood, make sure Katie here is free of Amaru’s control.”

“What do you mean?” Kate speaks up in a panicked voice, looking around at the guilty faces of her supposed friends and brother. “You mean, all this time, there’s been a chance that I could still be possessed? That that horrible woman could still be inside me and no one bothered to even tell me?” Her voice pitches, climbing higher until it’s practically a shriek.

“Kate, please calm down,” Scott intones, “We didn’t want to worry you until we knew for sure. That’s what we’re doing now, okay?”

She ignores him, turning to the two men in front of her. “What do we do?”

“We share blood,” Tanner says. He’s grinning with his too-large teeth and she hates him even more.

“No way is that creep sharing blood with my sister. I’ll do it.”

“You can’t do it, kid,” Burt explains. “It has to be someone who knows what they’re looking for, or you might miss something important.”

“So you do it,” Seth demands, “Scott’s right. Tanner isn’t getting anywhere near Kate’s blood.”

The room descends into cacophony as the men talk over Kate like she’s not even present. She sits in her chair, quiet, and sends a silent apology to her parents. _Never raise your voice at the table, Katie-Cakes. Gentleness is always more effective than harsh words._

“Everyone just shut up!” She yells. “And stop making choices for me,” she adds with a glare at Scott and Seth. “I’m sick of being treated like a child. From now on, I’ll decide what I do and what I know, and the rest of you are just going to have to deal with that. Understand?” She waits for their mumbles agreements, and then her eyes fall on Richie.

He’s already looking at her, awe and apprehension written on his face like he knows what she’s going to ask. The lines around his mouth are tight, and it dawns on Kate that he almost looks nervous.

“Richie?” The room falls silent, and he pushes himself off the wall gracefully.

Kate stands up, fingers playing a rhythm of nerves on her thigh.

“Just like old times,” he says low enough so the words are just meant for her.

She watches as he cuts into his palm, deep and crimson.

“Richard,” Seth’s warns.

“Don’t worry big brother,” Richie answers without once breaking eye contact with Kate, “I was her first, after all. I’ll be gentle.”

“You don’t have to be so crude,” she snaps, grabbing the knife from him and holding it to her palm. With the blade pressed to her sensitive flesh, she freezes and suddenly she really doesn’t want to do this anymore. Richie’s already seen too much of her soul, and she wants to keep what’s left of it all to herself.

“Kate?” He gently takes the knife from her shaking grasp and looks at her for confirmation. When she nods slightly, his next words are softer. “I promise it won’t hurt.”

Kate isn’t looking when he slices into her palm quickly, just the bare minimum of blood beginning to flow. She’s staring at him, partly shocked he remembers her words from all those months ago. When their hands connect, it’s not like before. This time, Kate is able to see into Richie’s soul as he looks into hers.

_He’s six years old watching their father beat Seth. Grins when he steals for the first time, a German shepherd he names Peaches. His dad refuses to buy dog food so Richie leaves some of his own dinner for the scraggly dog and laughs when Peach’s slobbery tongue licks him straight on the face. A few years later, there’s the smell of smoke and lighter fluid and alcohol- their dad always reeked of beer and whiskey. He wears a suit for this first time that’s too short in the sleeves and hates it when the priest talks about his father like he was a good man. Bloodied crescents imprint themselves on his palms from where he’s digging his nails into curled fists. When he’s eighteen, he graduates from high school. Seth and Uncle Eddie are in the crowd and he’s proud. Proud to have done something Seth gave up on and proud to be standing on that stage in coke-bottle glasses with a diploma in hand. He doesn’t go to college even though his chemistry teacher told him he was the brightest student she had ever taught. Instead, he plans jobs and they go perfectly. Thirty-five hits, and Richie’s bored. Wants more. He pretends to be happy when Seth marries Vanessa in Vegas. She’s in a short white dress and has a bottle of champagne in hand instead of a bouquet. Pretends not to worry about losing his best friend. When Seth is arrested, Richie doesn’t sleep that night. He just sits in the dark with a broken picture frame of him and Seth and the glass cuts his hand but he doesn’t feel it. And then there’s Kisa, but she’s not Kisa. She’s Santanico and Richie’s spiraling into something unhinged and lost. She sees herself, bright and good in Richie’s mind and wonders if she really looks like that. Like her bones are filled with sunlight instead of marrow. Feels the pain and anguish as he’s dying. And then he’s not. Watches him idolize his sire and confuse it for love and do terrible things in the name of this misplaced devotion. When she sees herself fall to the floor in a pool of her own blood, the taste of copper and grief rest heavy on her tongue. Sees him up all night with a pile of annotated texts. Hope and guilt and something else fuel him. That something else is lemons and crosses and strawberry lip palm and chlorine and something Richie associates entirely with her._

Kate gasps, pulling away from Richie as she tries to catch her breath. He’s wearing a similar overwhelmed look when they separate, eyes dark and a little wild. She stares at him with her chest heaving and eyes wide. The silence is broken by Tanner, and Kate stumbles when she remembers there are other people in the room.

“So?” He stretches out the syllable obnoxiously.

Richie manages to tear his gaze away from Kate. As he walks to the table, she stands there with unfocused eyes staring blankly at the wall. She’s half listening. “It’s definitely Kate.” He clears his throat when it’s too rough. “But I felt something different, too.”

She whirls around, horrified. “What?”

Richie sends her a pained look, “It’s like the exorcism worked, but not entirely. Amaru isn’t in control. We weakened her enough for Kate to resurface, and then she was able to overcome our very own queen of the crazies.”

“But she’s still in there?” Kate can only hear the blood rushing to her ears, like she’s standing right next to the raging ocean. She barely knows how she’s still standing.

“Not exactly, but the potential is. She still needs to use Kate to regain her original body, but she’s too weak to do anything. She’s planning something, though. A day she would be able to summon more power, just enough to finish her ritual.”

“The eclipse,” Tanner explains. For once, he seems to understand the gravity of the situation.

Kate stumbles out of the room and makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

~

The gun in her hand feels heavy. Kate knows what she has to do, but it’s harder now than when he had begged Seth to end her life. Now, she’s halfway back to herself. Now, when the memories of their broken family rush back to her: monopoly nights with Richie, Scott, Seth, and Kisa. She and Scott trying to teach Kisa the basic rules of the game, Seth’s irritation over getting to sent to jail, and Richie’s coy attempts to steal money. It’s harder than she would have thought to pull the trigger with the gun raised to her head. She should do it. Do it now, when she’s sitting in the night alone and when she can still save everyone she loves.

But she can’t.

“You shouldn’t steal stuff. I heard it’s not nice, you know?”

She stuffs the gun into the waistband of her pants, a weak attempt to conceal the weapon. In a small voice, “How did you know?”

“I’ve looked after two things my whole life: my brother and my guns. So unless you’ve got Richard hiding in you pants, my money’s on option B.”

She dejectedly hands him back his gun. “I used to hate you for not shooting me when you had the chance.”

“I know.”

“I don’t anymore.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders. “I hate her, Seth. I hate her more than I ever thought I was possible of hating anything.”

“Crazy bitch wanted hell, so that’s what we’re going to give her, Princess. And then you’re going to be free of this whole mess and live the life you’ve always deserved.”

She doesn’t tell him she doesn’t believe him. Doesn’t believe she’ll ever be free of the Geckos.

~

_Kate is lying on a hospital bed. She looks at her arm and expects to find wires and needles attached, but instead she’s handcuffed to the rail of the bed and a heavy sedative is being pumped into her bloodstream. There’s a man in front of her, an attendant. He smiles at her and his teeth are rotting in his mouth and his tongue is lying in a bed of dirt._

_“An eye for an eye. A soul for a soul.” He raises a bloodied hand to her chest, eyes jaundice yellow and skin a dull bluish. Like a corpse. “Tell me, do you even have a soul?”_

_Kate wants to scream, but she’s useless. Her body is limp and unresponsive and then she’s choking and gagging. Leaning over the edge of the bed, she throws up violently. A snake slithers from her belly and crawls out of her mouth. Violent sobs overcome her as the snake wraps around her legs. It opens its mouth, and a pink tongue darts out. The color of flesh. Before it can strike, Kate feels something on her toe. It’s a tag. She’s confused and all at once the snake is gone. Two geckos have replaced it, and they’re biting at her cold toes._

Kate wakes with a muffled yell. Sweat races over the bump of each vertebrae, and her shirt sticks to her spine like glue. All the voices and nightmares are too overpowering in her head. She lies in bed for hours and feels claustrophobic and tiny all at once, so Kate starts wandering the house at night. The others go out when the sun sets and return in the very early hours of the morning, so Kate doesn’t expect to see anyone. She’s surprised to see a dim light, and even more shocked when she sees Richie. He’s wearing a pair of gray joggers that contrast every image she has of him in pressed suits, doing laundry. It’s so ridiculous, she smiles.

“The legendary Richard Gecko separates whites and darks,” she says dryly, a teasing tilt to her words.

“Kate.” Richie says her name more than anyone else, and she thinks he likes saying it as much as she likes hearing it. “Someone’s gotta keep up everyday life in the midst of this clusterfuck.”

She smiles grimly and feels guilty. “Yeah.”

He closes his eyes briefly, taking his glasses off to rub the bridge of her nose. She’s seen him without them when she saw his time with Kisa, but he looks wrong without his trademark lenses. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

An awkward silence hangs between them, and Kate is unnerved by how easily he can read her. She should turn back and try to sleep, but the nonstop dead noise has finally stopped buzzing. She hears her own heartbeat in tandem with the deep rumble of the washing machine. Placing her hands on the machine, Kate tries hoists herself up, but it’s taller than she imagined. Huffing, her feet collide back on the ground with a dull thud.

She sucks in a breath through her teeth, shocked at the cold contact on her bare skin where her shirt had ridden up. Richie’s hands instinctively settle on waist as he lifts her onto the washer. His long fingers remain splayed on her skin and his body is positioned between her legs, and when it registers how intimate their position is Kate clears her throat. The shells of his ears tinge pink as he steps back and away from her.

“I used to do the laundry back home when Seth and I were young,” Richie offers. He’s leaning against the wall of the small laundry room and she’s swinging her legs, listening to him. “Seth tried to be the big brother and take care of us, but he’s useless when it comes to basic stuff.” His lips curl into a sardonic, sad smile. “One time, he accidentally added one of my red shirts to dad’s clothes and dyed everything pink. I did the laundry from then.”

Kate’s mouth is dry as she listens to him, feels like someone’s stuffed her windpipe full of cotton balls. The images of Seth with a bruised eye comforting his crying little brother tattoo themselves in her memory and she feels sick. “Richie.”

“You saw that night, didn’t you?”

She knows he’s talking about the fire, and nods.

Richie’s cold laugh fills the small room. Bitterness and detergent. “For fuck’s sake, you must really think I’m a monster now.”

A pregnant pause follows, punctuated with a heavy silence. She doesn’t think he’s a monster. He’s a culebra, but so is Scott, and she loves him more than anyone. He’s killed people, and so has she. She remembers the way he sacrificed himself to save that mother and child in Shady Glen. He’s flawed, but not broken. “I think you’re a tortured soul,” she tells him without looking into his blue blue eyes, “And I think you’ve endured more torture than most. Somewhere along the way you just started inflicting instead of enduring.”

“You, Kate Fuller, are something entirely foreign to this planet.”

Her nose scrunches up, “Like an alien.”

“An angel.” But then he smiles, and it’s a real smile that makes him look years younger. “But an alien would be pretty cool, too. Like Princess Leia, not ET.”

"Don't be cute. I'm still mad at you."

"You have every right."

"You were so blinded by your own greed you sold us all out."

He closes his eyes, and has the decency to look ashamed. "I would do anything to go back and save you, Kate."

"But you can't." Her voice is faraway. "I'm not an angel, Richie. I'm just terrified."

"Fire and brimstone, Kate. You are the best one out of all of us, always have been."

“Maybe I don’t want to be strong,” she tells him. Kate blinks back the burning in her eyes and focuses on the stain on the wall next to his head. Her voice sounds so small even to her own ears. “Maybe I want to forget my flip flops in college and have to shower in the really gross community showers. I want to move to a big city and use the saying “Little fish in a big pond” ironically and rent a crappy apartment and buy overpriced coffee and have awkward, clumsy sex for the first time and try sushi!” Kate lets out a deep breath, slightly embarrassed from her ramblings and just a little out of breath.

“Well,” Richie states in response, a crooked smile tugging up the corner of his lips. “I can help you with one of those. Can’t say it would be anything but mind-blowing, though.”

“The sushi?” She asks innocently, eyelashes batting up at him to in a way that almost hides the wicked gleam in her green eyes.

Richie throws his head back and lets out a deep, genuine laugh so his glasses slip backwards and he has to readjust them. It’s oddly endearing, and Kate can’t help but join in in his laughter. “Yes, smartass. The sushi.”

~

The next night, they try different sushi and fold laundry at four in the morning together when the rest of the world is sleeping. They don’t talk about the upcoming eclipse racing closer and closer- the date already printed on her calendar- or Xibalba or a sun god looking to revive his lost queen or Kate’s magical blood.

Hell on Earth is coming, but then Kate spills soy sauce on the neatly folded pile of whites and hell can wait because she really, really doesn’t want to have to explain to Kisa who stained her favorite bra.


	3. Chapter 3

_"I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am." - Sylvia Plath_

 

 _Kate sat at her old kitchen table, scuffed where Scott had once dropped his guitar and stained where Kate had spilled a bottle of bright pink nail varnish. Her old brown hair is clipped back and she’s wearing the same yellow dress her mother had bought her when she was seven, but it seemed to fit her now. Her mother is puttering around in the kitchen. She looks the same, like a photograph come to life. Same freckled arms and snaggletooth. When she walks over with a big smile and a bowl in each hand, Kate grins widely and can’t remember any reason this is wrong._  
 _“So Katie, tell me all about him.”_  
 _Kate accepts the proffered dish without glancing at its content, “Who, Momma?”_  
 _“The boy. There’s always a boy involved when an eighteen year old is smiling like you are. There’s nothing wrong with loving the devil, Katie. Even Lucifer was beautiful.”_  
 _Kate shakes her head and thinks of horn-rimmed classes and nicotine. “There’s no boy.”_  
 _“Whatever you say,” her mom tells her with a knowing smile and Kate feels like she’s lying. “How’s your friend?”_  
 _“What friend”_  
 _“Amaru.”_  
_The name slips from her mother’s lips like a curse, and Kate’s gaze drops to the bowl in front of her. All she sees is red. A bowl of sticky, coagulated blood that smells like iron and death. With a shaky voice, she asks, “Mom, what is this?”_  
 _“AB positive.” She lifts her own spoon to her mouth, and Kate nearly chokes when she sees red capsulated pills like cereal. Her mom crunches on the coated pills and smiles with lips stained an artificial red._  
 _Kate stands up in horror, creaky legs rearing back as the chair scrapes against the floor. “Mom.” She grabs the bowl away from her mother and the pills spill. They flood the table and tumble onto the floor, and each one lands much too loudly, like a gun going off._  
 _“Well, Katie now you’ve gone a made a whole mess of everything. Remember my little martyr, the only one who can defeat her is the one whose soul she tasted, but couldn’t digest.”_  
 _And then her mother reaches over and drinks deeply from the bowl of blood._  
She wakes up with a scream. Her throat is raw and tears coat her lips like a salty balm. Kate kicks off her sheets with a frustrated spasm and sits up abruptly when she feels eyes on her.  
“I heard your scream.”  
He’s not wearing his glasses and his hair is disheveled. His shirt is inside out, like he just threw it on, and the thought of him in his own bed warms Kate’s cheeks.  
Even Lucifer was beautiful.  
“Sorry.”  
“You don’t need to apologize.” He looks at her like he wants to move closer, but he’s waiting on an invitation she doesn’t give. “Nightmares again?”  
Kate twists the floral comforter around her in her finger, wraps it again, again and again until the skin turns red from lack of circulation. “Yeah.”  
She can see him run his tongue across his teeth in the dark. “I get them, too.”  
“I didn’t know that,” Kate says, interest piquing at his confession. She realizes she’s still tangled in her sheets and he hasn’t moved from his spot in the doorframe, hand braced on the handle. Against her better interests, she pats the mattress next to her and sucks in a breath when he walks over. Richie looks even taller in her room, shoulders too broad and eyes too blue to be confined on her twin-sized bed.  
“Richie, can I ask you a question?”  
His lips twitch. “You just did, Kate.”  
She swallows a laugh. “What if we can’t stop her?”  
“We’re making a plan. Me, Seth, little Bruce Lee, Sex Offender, Burt, all of us.”  
“But if the plan fails, if she comes back,” Kate’s voice wavers, “I need you to promise me something.”  
He looks at her sharply. “Don’t.”  
“Richie-”  
“I mean it, Kate. Don’t ask that of me.” His voice is cold, sharp. It cuts.  
She wilts under his glare.  
Richie clears his throat and looks like he wants to fix his glasses before he remembers he’s not wearing them. “My uncle Eddie- he’s the one who took Seth and me in after-”  
“I know,” Kate cuts in softly when he falters and the look of relief Richie sends her makes all that ice melt.  
“He had this saying, used to repeat it all the time and drilled it into our heads. “Adjust if you must but stick to the plan, Stan.’”  
“Rhymes and everything.”  
“Don’t let anyone tell you us Geckos don’t appreciate art.” She can hear the smile in his voice again, and sometimes Kate can’t believe the man sitting next to her is the same one who can claim more victims total than all the people in her little Texan church.  
“Can I ask you another question?”  
When he opens his mouth with the same wiseass smile, she elbows him between the ribs. “Why do you wear the glasses? You don’t need them anymore.”  
He shrugs, looks at her the way only he can. “Richard Gecko wears glasses.”  
Kate doesn’t push when he doesn’t say more, just gives him a bittersweet smile. With a tentative hand, she reaches out and traces his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. She feels a rush of power over him when his eyes fall closed. “They suit you.”  
He’s a smoking gun and she’s a natural disaster dressed up like a girl. They shouldn’t mix, all gunpowder and tragedy, but he lingers with her thoughts like the recoil of a rifle.  
~  
“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier,” Freddie tells her sincerely, pulling her in for a hug that reminds her of a father. To Kate, he feels like sturdy bones and good intentions.  
Kate just shakes her head, not wanting to cause him an extra iota of the guilt. With dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow detailing his haggard appearance, the man already looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  
“What do you say Ranger,” Seth claps him on the back, “This conversation’s better served on the rocks?”  
Freddie hesitates, before nodding. It’s not lost on Kate. Just like she remembers the woman Freddie staked after Richie’s mind control. Mind control he only used when he was being possessed by Amaru, but the guilt can’t elude Kate’s overfilling grasp. Trying to place blame makes her dizzy, and she wonders when the bad guys stopped being the men with guns and fangs. When did everyone become so deeply entrenched in death? It sticks to her clothes, rotting away in every wrinkle of fabric, and Kate thinks she’s going to choke on it.  
“Come on, Kate.” Scott’s arm on her elbow breaks her out of her reverie.  
She rarely ventures into the bar when its open, but Kate walks down with everyone today. She hates the loud noises- raucous yells, pitchy laughter, and shattered glass. The bar is relatively large with old wood paneling; the band plays on a small stage in front of discarded chairs that have been messily pushed aside so there’s more room to dance for those who’s drinks have made especially bold. Freddie breaks off to discuss her new situation with the others, but Kate can’t bear to hear the words again. She’s so terrified of losing control that it’s easier to pretend she’s still a kid and the grown-ups are going to sit at the adult table at family parties and discuss the real problems while she and Scott sneak off to play pool and eat without worrying about crumbing on their aunt’s furniture. It had been covered by plastic that stuck to their thighs and Kate had always wondered what it was being saved for. Now, she envies that couch for having a layer of protection from stains. Nothing had protected her from three rogue bullets.  
With Scott veering off to shoulder his guitar, Kate finds an empty stool at the bar and sits down in front of the shelf of liquor. There are peanuts in a glass bowl in front of her. Carefully, she opens one of the nuts and wraps the shell around into a neat roll. It’s pale and flaky, like a snake’s shed skin.  
“You ever been drunk before, Princess?”  
Kate looks up to find Seth grinning down at her from the other side of the bar, shot glass in hand. She thinks of Pete Winthrop’s summer party; everyone had gotten drunk on cheap wine coolers that tasted like jolly ranchers and spiked punch. Her sandals had been sticky from spilled beer and she had to throw them away because they picked up a habitual squeak. Kate had puked and then called Scott to pick her up, feeling so guilty the next morning she had volunteered the next three weekends at her church’s local food drive.  
“Earth to Kate,” Scott flicks the shell of her ear, and she doesn’t even know when he and Richie walked over. “She’s such a lightweight. Got drunk once and went to confession like four times. It was the only time Kate did anything wrong.” He looks mischievously gleeful, “It was great.”  
“It was so not great.”  
“You’ve always been such a good girl, Katie-Cakes?” Richie’s amused whisper so close to her ear causes a deep blush to bloom all over her heated face. She wriggles away from him, aware of just how close her is when she turns her head to her left and can perfectly outline the freckle above the right side of his mouth.  
Seth’s deep laugh fills their little corner. “Well, looks like it’s time you graduated from wine coolers.” He pours a shot from an amber bottle Kate can’t identify and sets it before her like a challenge. Then pours three more.  
“Bottoms up.” Two of the shots disappear, and Kate watches her brother down his without a wince. It makes her sad to know he no longer chokes after every sip like he used to do.  
She brings her own shot to her lips. It smells like rubbing alcohol. The drink burns like fire, and Kate falls into a fight of coughing. “That’s horrible,” she wheezes out, hand over heart and nose scrunched in disgust.  
“Here.” Another small glass is placed in front of her, and she looks at Richie incredulously.  
“I am not taking another one of those things.”  
“It’s a chaser. Just fruit juice, promise.”  
She narrows her eyes at him, trying to reign in her residual coughs so her face is still a little too flushed.  
“You don’t trust me?”  
“Should I?”  
“Boy scout’s honor.” At this a mock-serious expression flits over his features and he salutes her. She tries to imagine the little boy she saw as a boy scout, collecting badges and going camping. Richie was always too smart for his own good. Labeled as crazy and friendless, she sees him locking himself in their tiny bathroom with the yellow lighting and rinsing at his bloodshot eyes with cold water so their father couldn’t tell he had been crying.  
She grabs the glass and sips at its sugary content. When Seth pours more shots, Kisa wanders over looking bored. “Alcohol was made for two things, chica,” she begins, knocking back the first one gracefully. “For men to drown their sorrows in and lower the inhibitions of us women. When we’re all vulnerable and unsuspecting, they pounce.” She forcefully squeezes into the already tight space between Kate and Scott, clinking her second tumbler against the unclaimed one on the bar.  
“And yet look who’s awfully thirsty,” Seth comments, snatching the last one up and away.  
“I’m no man, Seth. I was alive before this was even bottled and before you were even a pestering presence on this planet. I think I can handle myself well enough.”  
“More than most?”  
“Better than you.”  
Kate watches the exchange, head moving back and forth as if in a tennis match. When Scott snarks, “God, just screw already so we can all stop enduring this twisted version of sexual tension,” and they both hit him in unison, Kate permits a peek at Richie with her teeth still biting into the rim of her juice glass. His face is blank and he’s swirling the liquid in his cup dangerously close to his rim. When he notices her eyes on him, he gives her a private smile. She thinks he’s telling her he’s okay, and she hopes he can tell she’s telling him she knows.


End file.
